


Women of Supernatural and the Impala:  the Pilot

by fannishliss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Women of Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:00:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>42 Days of Metallicar: Dean’s Baby and the Women of Supernatural<br/>A challenge to produce fanworks about the Impala, originally from the summer of 2009 hosted on LJ by  alias_chick. </p><p>I had the idea to feature the Impala in stories about the Women of Supernatural, so that's how this series got started.  </p><p>Here is my first entry -- the Pilot:  Mary Winchester, Jessica Moore, and Constance Welch, and what they think of the Impala.  </p><p>With grateful thanks to the Supernatural Wiki, for listing everyone and how they are spelled!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Women of Supernatural and the Impala:  the Pilot

**Episode One: The Pilot  
Women: Mary Campbell Winchester, Jessica Moore, Constance Welch**

**1\. Mary Campbell Winchester**  
  
Mary gazes from the window, a shade among flames.   Outside, on the long hood of the old black car, huddle her boys, her man.

In a flash, she remembers that car, the first time John drove up in it.  Sleek and black, an old model, but loud and exciting.  Inside, the smell of hot leather, wide, inviting seats, and John has already set it on rock, of course. Mary flashes on how quickly it became like home.  Ten years John fine-tuned it, till it ran better than new.

Time won’t pass for Mary any more, not the way it did when she was alive.  In flashes, she’ll remember, and in a flash, they’ll be gone, and nothing left of her but remembrance and flooding pools of love, hatred, terror, regret. When it flashes in her, every time, she’ll fashion all that’s left of her into a blessing:

Carry them far, far away from here, she pleads with that old car. 

Carry them far away from me and my curse.  
Keep them safe with cold iron by our ten years’ love.   
Be the home that is never invaded and never burns...

roaring engine replacing her incinerated heart,  
a steel cage and soft leather,  
all that’s left to embrace those living souls.

 **2\. Jessica Moore**  
  
When Jessica Moore meets Dean Winchester, here is what she sees:  
\--the smarmiest version of Sam’s shy grin she can possibly imagine.  
\--that same whipsmart brain sizing you up from behind green eyes.  
\--the easy lies she’s learned to lay aside when matters of family come up.  
Yes, this is Sam’s brother, the one whose name he shouts in his sleep.

When Jessica sees Dean’s car, it is carrying Sam away, his future 72 hours from the making:  
\--the music on the radio is raucous and can’t be ignored.  
\--the engine is powerful, loud, but tuned and purring like a tiger.  
\--the paint job is flawless, polished to a mirror.  
\--the interior is pristine, not even an empty coffee cup.

Jessica sees Sam’s dedication, his perfectionism, his sexiness, his gentleness and strength, even his sudden, offbeat sense of fun, all played out in this car.  And Sam says his family is nothing like him.

 

  ****

3\. Constance Welch  
  
Constance loves the sound of an engine. Along her lonely stretch of road, an engine means a momentary embrace.  Small price to pay: the impending moment of impact, the nulled-out slam of the engine block through her disincorporated strands. She can quickly coalesce again, concentrated around her desire (her damnation): am I pretty enough for you?  Take me HOME! She trembles on the bridge, steps forward, falls, and brings the engine to life with a righteous roar. Constance surges forward, all enraged, toward the men in her headlights. Now she’s straddling a man, defensive and arrogant, like his heart is so pure, like he’s never been unfaithful.  As though the very car he’s driving doesn’t reek with the stench of his betrayal.  Liar! Leaver!  Quitter!  She’ll show him, feed him his own black heart!  But then he turns the key, guns it -- the car rams forward like a tank, takes down the fragile wall of her house. She can’t quite see the years of dust and decay, but she can still hear the dripping.  Oh-- her children!  She’s so sorry, so sorry!  Her screams fade away like the motes of dust crossing the beam of the headlight.  
 

 


End file.
